


it's a new dawn, it's a new day

by walksbyherself



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, F/M, Implied Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walksbyherself/pseuds/walksbyherself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Saturday nights, she gets to quit waiting tables and sing with the band instead.</p>
<p>He only ever turns up on Saturday nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a new dawn, it's a new day

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [Only, You Were Thinking About Murder: a noir ficathon](http://eternal-elenea.livejournal.com/102733.html).

On Saturday nights, she gets to quit waiting tables and sing with the band instead.

He only ever turns up on Saturday nights.

 

At first, he only sends her flowers. Roses and lilies and orchids give way to things she has to look up at the library. 

The dresses come next; silky, slinky things her salary could never cover. The measurements are perfect.

The last gift is a necklace; pale blue gemstone, square cut, on a gold chain. She’s pretty sure she saw it in a museum once. They called it the Tesseract. (They also called it cursed.)

She wears it to the bar that Saturday. He spots it when she takes the stage; she watches the smile spread across his face--sharp and pleased and a little wicked.

That night, she sings for him.

 

He motions her over to his his table at last call, stands up to pull out a chair for her.

She takes a seat, smooths out her skirt. “What do you want from me, Mr. Odinson?”

His smile thins; she’s not sure which part of that was the wrong thing to say. “Please. Call me Loki.”

“Loki.” His eyes brighten. “I don’t imagine you give all the waitresses priceless artifacts.”

(Although he could afford to. He’s the second son of the All-Father, the man who controls all the less-than-legal business in town. He and his brother are set to inherit everything, are already neck-deep in things if rumor is to be believed.)

“I know what you do,” she says. “You’re not safe.”

“Would you have given me a second glance?” he wonders. “If I were safe?”

 

When she wakes up, he is playing with her hair.

“Don’t even think about cutting it,” she murmurs, without opening her eyes.

“Why would I be thinking about that?”

“Why wouldn’t you? You did it to Sif.”

He laughs, kisses her shoulder blade. “You shouldn’t believe everything she tells you.”

 

He takes her out to dinner, takes her dancing, takes her into the homes of the city’s power brokers. 

“Where _did_ he find you?” asks a blonde in a green evening gown.

“Now, now, Amora.” Loki slips an arm around Darcy’s waist. “What have I told you about taking things that don’t belong to you?”

“And does she know how you treat things that belong to _you_?” Amora leans in until she can whisper against Darcy’s mouth. “Ask him about--”

Darcy presses her lips to Amora’s, tasting lipstick and champagne. She digs in her teeth until she tastes blood too. Amora pulls away, snarling, and vanishes into the crowd.

“You don’t want to know what she had to say?” She can feel the laughter in Loki’s voice, a rumble against her spine.

“No.” (It’s not a lie. She made her bed; she’s staying in it.) She turns in his arms until she can kiss him, kisses him until she can taste only him.

He never introduces her to his family.

 

Darcy knows something is wrong when he stands in the corner and won’t take his coat off. She keeps her smile on until the band takes five. 

Back in the storage room, surrounded only by liquor boxes and no prying eyes, she asks him, “Where are you going?”

“Not far,” Loki says. “And not for long.” He tucks a curl behind her ear. “A debt needs paying, that’s all.”

 

There’s gunfire in the streets at night. Business in the bar slows to a crawl. Darcy flirts with the few cops who come at the end of their shifts, plies them for information with a heavy pour on their drinks.

The All-Father is at war with a new outfit from Jotunheim, some tell her.

Others say the All-Father’s house is at war with itself. Odin nursed a viper in the heart of his empire and it’s big enough to bite him now.

“What do you mean?”

Officer Barton smiles crookedly. “You didn’t hear? One of Odin’s boys isn’t Odin’s boy after all.”

“No kidding?” Darcy manages a breathless laugh. “Which one?”

 

The story that she gets eventually--bits and pieces from beat cops, along with one huge chunk from Commissioner Fury himself--goes like this:

Back when Odin was still solidifying his power, the whole family of a potential rival was gunned down in their home. Laufey--the leading man or woman, reports differed--had an infant son, left squalling in a blood-spattered cradle. Odin had carried the child away rather than put a bullet in its head, and raised him as his own. He kept the truth secret for years.

Loki knows now, and he’s gone to war over the lie.

 

Sif doesn’t come into the bar on Saturday nights, because she won’t be in the same room as Loki.

Which means tonight she knows Loki isn’t coming.

Darcy steps down off the stage with the band still playing behind her. She cuts through the crowd like a razor blade, stops next to Sif’s table and stares until the other woman looks up from her drink.

“Tell me what happened,” Darcy says, voice flat.

Sif’s smile is thin and sad, blood red lips closed over her teeth. “He made a play. He lost. He’s paying for it.”

Darcy sucks air over her teeth, just short of a whistle. “Then I need you to get me a meeting with the All-Father.”

Sif lights a cigarette. “I can do that,” she says, breathing smoke. “But I don’t think it’s going to help you.”

 

Darcy wears black to the All-Father’s house, with a sprig of mistletoe pinned to her hat band.

There is one guard at the door. Darcy expects to be frisked, but he only watches her climb the steps. When she reaches the top, he nods once and says, “You may pass” like this was a test Sif forgot to warn her about.

In the entryway, she realizes that the walls to this house must be thicker than she supposed. 

She couldn’t hear any of the screaming from the street.

 

Darcy takes a seat on the very edge of a leather armchair worth more than her apartment. 

“How can I help you, Miss Lewis?” Odin Borsson folds his hands and smiles.

Darcy opens her handbag and lifts out the Tesseract by its chain. She sets it down on the All-Father’s desk with a _thump_.

“I’m here to trade,” she says.

Odin glances at the necklace, then gestures for her to continue.

“I want you to let him go.”

“Then you’ve made a very impressive down payment, Miss Lewis, but it isn’t close to enough.”

“Oh,” she breathes, as if she prepared for this.

She thinks about all the money she has to her name, how much more she could raise if she sold all the gifts Loki gave her. She thinks about all of that, and how little it would be compared to the wealth this man possesses. 

She thinks about what else he could ask of her. The screaming in the basement trails off, becomes a muffled wail, as if whoever it is can no longer open their mouth. 

“Come to work for me.”

Darcy blinks. “Doing what?”

“My son Thor was to have an advisor, someone to cover the blind spots his trusting nature creates. My first choice is no longer an option.” Down the hall, someone sobs. “Sif tells me you would do well as a replacement.”

“Sif and I aren’t on very good terms.”

“That’s why I trust her assessment.”

“And that’s all I have to do?” Darcy folds her hands in her lap, squeezing until it becomes painful. “Advise your son. No extra conditions? Like never seeing Lo-- _him_ again?”

The All-Father shakes his head. “If you think he will seek you out after this, then you don’t know him at all.”

 

It’s a Saturday afternoon and Darcy is just waking up.

She spent last night at the Black Widow’s, making sure Thor didn’t negotiate away all of the territory under contention. (He’s too easily charmed by a woman who can break a man’s arm.) Tonight, there’s no appointment on the books, but she’s still expected to be part of his entourage. She climbs into the shower, rinsing yesterday’s cigarette smoke out of her hair, and uses the time to gather her thoughts.

She turns to rinse her face and sees the Tesseract looped around the showerhead.

She isn’t sure if it’s meant as a threat or a promise. She decides she doesn’t care.


End file.
